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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771010">Mr. Valentine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenry_Morgan/pseuds/Jenry_Morgan'>Jenry_Morgan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miss Scarlet and the Duke (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Case Fic, F/M, Post-Episode: S1xE06 The Case of Henry Scarlet, Victorian, valentines day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:02:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenry_Morgan/pseuds/Jenry_Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When several people receive Valentines cards from deceased loved ones, Miss Eliza Scarlet sets out to uncover who is behind the workings of this odd initiation. Inspector Wellington sees it as little more than a harmless prank, but there may be a different, darker message behind these tokens of love. He soon finds himself wrapped up in Eliza’s case, which draws the two into the mysteries of harbored romance and desire, as they pursue who can only be known to them as Mr. Valentine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eliza Scarlet/William "Duke" Wellington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we have it, a good, old fashioned case fic, something I particularly enjoy conjuring up. I've written a lot of it and published very little, a shortcoming I've long meant to remedy. And then, Miss Scarlet and The Duke-one episode in and something just clicked. Straight up my alley, chock-full of 1800's crime with sharp characters, banter, and chemistry. There's something to be said about William and Eliza...</p><p>And of course, what better time than Valentine's Day for our duo of headstrong detectives to butt heads over a case. </p><p>So, here it goes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A creak of metal and a hushed flutter barely disturbed the silence in the sunlit foyer, as a handful of letters tumbled in through the mail flap on the front door of Miss Eliza Scarlet’s flat. It was a mundane sound, the sort you stopped hearing as it repeated itself daily, but it was unmistakable when you were waiting for the delivery it signaled.</p><p>Eliza Scarlet had been doing just that, anxiously pacing all morning and remaining within earshot of the door. No sooner had the narrow, gold flap lifted and stack of post hit the carpeted floor, that Eliza jumped up from where she’d finally settled to wait for its arrival, the staircase opposite the door. She crossed the room in haste, beating her housekeeper, Ivy to the door.   </p><p>“My, you’re excited to read the post this morning.” Ivy smiled, as she ran her hands over her apron. She’d just come up from the kitchen, traces of flour on her hands and her cheeks flushed red from peeking in on the meat pie in the oven. “Are you expecting something, Miss Scarlet?” Ivy said with an unmistakable twinkle in her eye.    </p><p>Eliza was too busy to hear her. She stopped shuffling through the letters, as soon as she recognized the scribbled handwriting of her address on a small, crisp white envelope.   </p><p>Just the morning before, an older gentleman, a one Mr. Tiverton had paid her office a visit, distressed by the discovery of a missing 20 pounds, taken in increments from his desk, over the span of three weeks. He had promised to write promptly with details on how they should cautiously proceed with the investigation, as he did not want to tally a list of new enemies. His angry wife, whom he had first confronted, had taken to the accusation badly and told him he was so careless a person, he wouldn’t recognize his money if it was standing before him. Mr. Tiverton relented and set his sights elsewhere. There was, as he also recalled, the discovery of a broken window in his library. </p><p>Eliza’s eyes darted over the letter inside the envelope for no more than a second, before reading the message aloud.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>Miss Scarlet,<br/>
I most sincerely appreciate your agreeing to meet with me yesterday on the matter of the whereabouts of my stolen 20 pounds. To get straight to the matter- my wife kindly treated herself to the above-mentioned sum for the purchase of several lavish household furnishings and new frocks, one of which she was wearing when I first confronted her. I must admit, this was not a welcome discovery, but one I myself neglected to see.<br/>
The broken window, I learned, was the consequence of a careless exchange between my hot-tempered housemaid and the china closet.<br/>
As such, there is nothing further for us to pursue. You will find payment for the length of my appointment at your office.<br/>
I thank you kindly,<br/>
Mr. Edward Tiverton</i>
  </p>
</blockquote>Eliza slumped her head back towards her shoulders with a resigning groan. The outcome was exactly opposite of what she had hoped. The subject of missing money hadn’t been particularly enticing, but the broken window, that sounded promising. In fact, Eliza had already imagined herself climbing through one such of the Tiverton’s moonlit windows in hopes of catching the thief red handed, as Mr. and Mrs. Tiverton slept undisturbed upstairs.<p>All that was at an end now. Mr. Tiverton had observed his losses, Mrs. Tiverton had lavish furnishings and clothes, and Eliza had not one case to pursue. </p><p>“How is it that most of my cases concern matters of little or no consequence?” Eliza uttered in frustration. “One cannot make a career on the mundane oversights and foibles of people.” </p><p>“Not everyone is as sharp as you, Lizzie,” Ivy replied simply. Eliza’s kindly housekeeper rarely contributed her opinion to the workings of a case, but she was wholeheartedly proud of the young woman Eliza Scarlet had grown into.  </p><p>Eliza conceded with a faint smile and continued to sift through the remaining mail in her hand. Two of the envelopes were for Ivy, who having learned her letters, now engaged in frequent correspondence with her cousin in Whales. Yet, another two were reminders of owed payments, which Eliza flipped past with no change of expression, and one was…</p><p>“Oh.” Eliza recognized the familiar maroon seal on the final envelope. She outstretched one hand to pass Ivy her pair of letters, as she flipped the last of her sealed messages in the other. The normally centered wax stamp was crooked. Its sender was in evident distress. Oh dear. Eliza braced herself. </p><p>“Is it a card?” the expectation in Ivy’s tone returned. </p><p>“No, it’s from Rupert, actually,” Eliza said, preoccupied with opening it. </p><p>Eliza’s last encounter with Rupert had not exactly been on their usual terms. An impertinent Fräulein Hildegard had torn into her drawing room and shouted an onslaught of inculpatory remarks. If such behavior was acceptable in Germany, then Eliza doubted she ever wanted to visit. Fräulein Hildegard’s only reconciliation came upon her ‘cracking the case’, as Rupert called it, when she rightly spotted Henry Scarlet’s killer lurking at Eliza’s door. Still, Fräulein’s feisty temper forbade her to apologize to Eliza and it was poor Rupert that remained in the firing line. </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>Eliza,<br/>
Allow me to re-express my grief at the tragic circumstances that led to your father’s passing. I know I only echo the words of others in saying that he would be very proud of you.<br/>
I fear I have a matter of a most pressing nature to discuss. Fräulein Hildegard has delayed her stay in London and left me with a dilemma. I find I must once again seek your sound advice.<br/>
Shall we agree on 5 this evening?<br/>
Your indebted friend,<br/>
Rupert </i>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“Is something amiss?” Ivy asked with a slight dip of her head. “I do hope it’s not about that German lady of his. With the way she stormed in here, I wouldn’t like to see her treat you like that again.”</p><p>“Nothing a sensible man such as Rupert can’t resolve,” Eliza replied. She was absolutely lying, of course. And given the timing, she had a good inkling of what Rupert’s dilemma was about. </p><p>Eliza did not bother responding to Rupert’s letter. He knew without saying, that if she was not occupied with a case, she would make every effort to come at the noted time. </p><p>“Well,” Eliza put on a smile, tucking away the letters into her skirt pocket and smoothing over the burgundy plackets, “perhaps, better luck awaits me at my office. I’ll be home by six.” </p><p>“Don’t go making trouble for yourself, Miss Scarlet,” Ivy warned, crossing her arms. </p><p>“Whenever do I do that,” Eliza replied, holding back a smile, as she collected her things. </p><p>She pulled on her gloves, affixed her wool, burgundy hat on her head, took her purse, and set off for her office. </p><p>......</p><p>“Fräulein Scarlet!” Eliza’s nosy, but well-meaning business neighbor, Herr Hildegard, intercepted her from his corner threshold the moment he saw her figure crossing the street, as if he’d spent the whole morning perched on the windowsill of his establishment awaiting her arrival. It was likely that he had.  </p><p>“Herr Hildegard.” Eliza paused to offer him a courteous smile, ringing the keys to her office in her gloved hand to indicate that she had nothing but business on her mind.  </p><p>“There was a lady here to see you earlier,” the lanky, German gentleman said. “I was insistent that she wait, but she did not stay. Most impatient.” Herr Hildegard arched his brow. </p><p>“Thank you, Herr Hildegard,” Eliza said. “I am sure if she has a pressing business matter to discuss that she will return shortly.”</p><p>Herr Hildegard loitered a moment longer. “And, how are you, Fräulein Scarlet?” </p><p>“All is well, Herr Hildegard. All is well.” Eliza deliberately avoided his implications.  </p><p>“Such a horrible end to your dear father,” Herr Hildegard continued with his sentiment anyway. “He was a good man. What a tragedy!”  </p><p>Eliza pursed her lips and resigned herself to a nod as her sole parting from the conversation. She turned her figure towards the building of her office, her eyes falling on the words ‘Mr. Henry Scarlet-Private Investigator’ painted over the entry. Walking up to the building, she hesitated and placed her gloved hand over the corner of the shiny plaque nailed to the façade for no more than a moment before letting her fingers slide over the engraving of her father’s name and fixing her attention to unlocking the door.  </p><p>Eliza collected her fee from Mr. Tiverton, left as promised, in a white envelope under the door and ascended the stairs to her office. </p><p>It was, as she realized, one of the first times she had been alone since the events of her father’s murder came to an end. Eliza stopped in the middle of the office, her footsteps ceasing and the room going completely still. Her hands fell to her sides and she stood lost like a child.</p><p><br/>
</p><p><i>“I still miss her, Papa,” Eliza said to her father, holding a book of pressed flowers that she and her mother had made when she was no more than a few years old. They had taken a holiday in the country and Eliza had spent her days exploring the fields and streams for the animals that resided there.</i>
  </p><p>
    <i>“Lizzie,” Henry said, warmly. He’d returned from work to find his daughter in the sitting room, perched on the windowsill, delicately tracing the page of a book with the tip of her finger. Henry crossed the room and Eliza wiped the pooling tears that had not yet escaped her sad, blue eyes. “As do I, my dear girl. In this moment more than the one before.”</i>
  </p><p>
    <i>“Sometimes I wish it would just stop,” Eliza protested weakly. She swung her legs off the windowsill ledge, as her father sat down beside her. </i>
  </p><p>
    <i>“Who would any of us be, if that were so,” Henry said, brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen over his daughter’s face. “We hold no power over the love we have for a person. Nor can we wish it away. As hard as it is, we must accept our feelings and move forward.”  </i>
  </p><p>
    <i>Outside the sitting room window, a young boy ran into the small patch of garden and began to play with a ball. </i>
  </p><p>
    <i>“Speaking of moving forward,” Henry acknowledged the boy to Eliza, with a raise of his brows, “I believe I am awaited.”</i>
  </p><p><br/>
</p><p>The sound of a carriage door slammed abruptly in the street shot Eliza right back to where she stood, on the worn floorboards of her father’s office, sunlight from the window illuminating the dust dancing in the air around her.</p><p>“Why do you always say such funny things?” Eliza spoke aloud, aware that she would get no answer. </p><p>Losing no more time, Eliza hung up her hat and settled to work-a tedious cleaning of her office. She rearranged and replaced the contents of her shelves. She disposed of anything that was of no use. She reviewed the daily paper to see if anything out of the ordinary, where she might offer her services would catch her attention. After straightening up her filing drawers, instruments, and desk for the tenth time, Eliza flopped down into her chair, balled her hands together into fists, and rested her chin atop them. </p><p>Eliza despised boredom. She did not often encounter it, but when she did, she began to get ideas. Surely, in the whole of London someone was in need of her help. Eliza toyed with the thought of offering her assistance to Scotland Yard. Their desks, overflowing with cases in urgent need of attention, sent her thoughts spiraling. Eliza was about to rise and act on her decision to pay one very particular Detective Inspector a visit, when the door to her office burst open and a well-dressed woman tore in, tear stains barely dry on her cheeks.   </p><p>Without hesitation, she crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite Eliza at her desk. She looked like she’d rehearsed this entrance a dozen times for a performance at the theatre. </p><p>Eliza was stunned for a moment, but quickly composed herself, as she straightened her figure behind the desk and took a quiet breath. </p><p>“Mrs...” Eliza encouraged the emotional woman to speak, taking note of the wedding ring on one of her shaking fingers, which clutched her gloves and purse. </p><p>“Reed.” the lady inhaled. “Alma Reed.” </p><p>“Well, Mrs. Reed,” Eliza said calmly, hoping to diffuse the ladies’ obvious distress. “What can I do for you?” </p><p>“Just this morning, I was handed this on my way to the carriage,” Alma said, remaining still where she sat.  </p><p>“Handed what?” Eliza questioned after a brief silence, seeing as Alma had produced nothing to accompany her words. </p><p>Now that she was here, Alma Reed seemed hesitant to disclose what it was that made her tear into Eliza’s office with such desperation. She swallowed thickly. At last, she fumbled with the clasp of her dainty handbag, retrieving a decorative, cream white envelope. Wordlessly, she outstretched it to Eliza. </p><p>Eliza took notice of the delicacy of the envelope itself, marked simply 'Alma', before carefully drawing out what lay within-an intricately designed Valentine’s Card. Two pale angels, wrapped in soft blue ribbon, united over an abundance of flowers on a detailed, layered lace design. Eliza opened the card slowly to read its message, a printed verse in gold leaf letters-</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
<i>Oh! how shall I in language weak<br/>
My ardent passion tell;<br/>
Or form my falt’ring tongue to speak<br/>
That cruel word farewell!<br/>
Farewell — but know, though thus we part,<br/>
My thoughts can never stray:<br/>
Go where I will, my constant heart<br/>
Must with my charmer stay.</i>
  </p>
  <p>
  <i>All my love,<br/>
B.</i>
</p>
</blockquote><p>Valentine’s Day was not three days away. At this very moment, postmen were frantically delivering thousands of cards across London, as they would continue to do all but round the clock. Shops were flooded with selections of varyingly crafted love notes and verses. Sweetheart or foe, adored or envied, longed for or abandoned, there was a card to express every sentiment one wished to convey.<br/>
But, Eliza gathered Alma Reed had not come here to merely share this private token of love with her. As if on cue, Alma, who had yet offered no notion to speak, enlightened her. </p><p>“He died, five years ago.” Alma twisted the gold ring on her finger subconsciously, a nervous trait Eliza recognized. “Terrible. Terrible.” Alma’s voice faded out on the second repetition, as if the mere memory stole it away from her. </p><p>Eliza studied the card in her hands. Admittedly, she was no expert on the expression of love or floriography, hardly having been the object of someone’s affection herself, but she needed no knowledge on the subject to decipher its meaning. Love was lost, but the heart had not forgotten, a bold message the particular selection of colorful flowers-forget-me-nots, primroses, and cyclamens further proclaimed. Unusual to the custom of leaving the card unsigned, a handwritten sweep of black ink contrasted against the soft paper below the gold, printed verse. ‘All my love, B.’. The intention of the sender was clear.  </p><p>“All these years of silence, and now...” Alma reflected. “When I thought I had nothing but his memory left in me.” </p><p>“Mrs. Reed, may I ask who delivered you this card?” Eliza drew out her small casebook and held pencil to paper in anticipation. </p><p>“Just a street boy,” Alma replied. “He ran up to the carriage, at a quarter to nine, as I was leaving for town. He startled me, really. Ten or eleven, at the most he looked. He had a cap on, but it was too big for him, like he'd borrowed it from a man. Grey jacket, missing a few buttons. There was a tear on the left shoulder.” </p><p>Eliza hurriedly scribbled down the details Alma so precisely recalled. Slowly, Eliza's discomposed visitor was coming round to conversation. </p><p>“And you would like me to find the person who sent you this card under the pretense of your late husband?” Eliza asked, simply. </p><p>Alma Reed did not look Eliza in the eye when she spoke. “He was not my husband, Miss Scarlet,” she hesitated. “He was my lover.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading and I'm looking forward to bringing the next chapter. </p><p>I picture Eliza wearing the finest of her red wardrobe while working this case. A subtle nod to the color synonymous with Valentine's Day. And we know William loves it.<br/>Half the fun in writing about a different era, for me, is delving into the customs, creations, and occasions of the period, so I try to be as historically accurate as time and research allows.   </p><p>Comments and kudos are so appreciated and encouraging!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to everyone who's reading...there's so much in store for this case and also for Eliza and William.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Bertie, Albert,” Alma corrected herself to use of his formal name, “died five years ago. A horrible accident; he fell from his horse at his family’s country home in Somerset. He’d spent much of his childhood there and visited often. They were a wealthy, close family; Albert was always talking about them, though under the circumstances,” Alma looked down at her lap to distract herself with smoothing a crease on her emerald green coat, “I never met them.” </p><p>The pencil in Eliza’s hand moved smoothly across the bound paper in her casebook. Her father always taught her to listen and take notes attentively-record every detail, every inflection of the voice. As a child, she had a tendency to overlook one over the other, a fault she often practiced at school and one which cost her many mistakes in her studies. </p><p>“I had been married to Cyrus for nine months.” Alma continued to unveil her past to the detective across from her. “It was all a tremendous accident-Albert and I meeting. My husband always opened our home to entertainment. He is, as many can tell you, a man of refined taste in both the amusements he hosts and the company he keeps. On one such occasion, I happened upon a handsome, young stranger in our library. He had one of those rare faces that you’d recognize all your life. Tall and well-dressed, with his black hair combed back, he carried himself like a man of wealth and confidence, but the absence of a moustache or beard gave his face an innocence and youthfulness unlike any I’d seen before. He confessed he’d wandered in uninvited. He told me he often passed by our home in the evening on his way from business in town and grew ever more envious of the laughter and music that flooded from the doorway and into the street. No longer able to resist the temptation, he at last boldly imposed himself on our company.” </p><p>“Upon our first introduction, Albert was unaware that I was mistress of this house nor married, but then, I gave him no inclination to believe so.” Alma again fiddled with the fabric on her lap. “His likeable character and skill with cards earned him favor with my husband and our friends and he became a regular guest at our weekend gatherings. Several months later, Albert and I began to exchange letters. We’d meet under the pretense of an outing. From there, I trust you can gather the rest.”     </p><p>Eliza looked up from the casebook and took in Alma’s expression, the guilt in her voice disguised as resignation in her pronounced features.   </p><p>“Cyrus always reads the paper at breakfast, every morning,” Alma said, the tremor in her voice returning. “I remember the front cover of <i>The Times</i> that day-reviews on the opening night of <i>Hamlet</i> in London. The words Cyrus uttered when he read the news of the accident aloud still linger in my mind as fresh as when they were spoken.” </p><p>Eliza had momentarily stopped penning Alma’s account to compose her thoughts. To learn from one’s own husband of the death of your secret lover-how much fortitude Alma must have carried within her to remain seemingly unaffected at breakfast. Whether a reflex of her vivid recollection or the admission to Eliza, Alma’s fingers tightened their already firm hold around the handle of her purse. Eliza imagined it akin to how the grief-stricken Alma had clutched her silverware and teacup to keep her hands from shaking at the table on that fateful morning. </p><p>Eliza broke herself away from her vivid imagination and returned to the case at hand. </p><p>“Mrs. Reed, surely this card does not prove that Albert is alive.” Eliza eluded to the likelihood that the Valentine was nothing more than an ill-timed jest.  </p><p>Alma gave the slightest tip of her head to acknowledge Eliza’s suspicions, but it was clear that the woman’s mind had already discounted that possibility before she arrived. </p><p>“I thought I would know, I always thought I would know,” Alma said. “I imagined one feels when a tragedy befalls someone close to the heart, yet I felt nothing but numbness.” Alma paused. “Suddenly, it seemed as if Albert never existed at all.” </p><p>“Mrs. Reed, you are married.” Eliza was suddenly conflicted on taking on such a questionable case. She did not want to tarnish her reputation by reuniting forbidden lovers and as unromantic as it was, her specialty of work revolved around the darker side of human nature.  </p><p>“Happily, as it is,” Alma replied, touching on her shiny wedding band. “Cyrus has never been less than generous and loyal to me from the day we met.” </p><p>“Then why do you wish to risk your marriage to pursue this unfounded suspicion?” Eliza questioned.  </p><p>Alma met Eliza’s worried eyes. “You need not tell me I take a great risk. I think, <i>I know</i> that Bertie is alive,” Alma said, fighting her emotions. “Please Miss Scarlet, I beg you to help me find him.”  </p><p>Eliza sighed and lay her palms flat on her casebook. “Very well, I will look into it.”</p><p>“I only ask you to please keep this arrangement between us,” Alma said, the relief of Eliza’s agreeing to the case countering the fear of its revelation to society. “If word gets out…” </p><p>“Rest assured, Mrs. Reed, the matter will be kept strictly confidential.” Eliza consoled her. “May I hold on to this?” Eliza glanced down at the Valentine laying on her desk and touched the corner of the card gently for emphasis. </p><p>Alma nodded. Smoothly, she slid her fingers into her green, leather gloves as she stood, her exit a calm contrast to the state of her arrival. </p><p>Pausing at the door, she uttered a simple, ‘Thank you’, before vacating the room.  </p><p>Fragile in her hands, Eliza picked up the Valentine again. The pair of angels, with their wings draped in flowers and ribbon appeared weightless in their flight. The Divine, rejoicing expressions on their alabaster faces portrayed a tender innocence of love, one the eloquently selected verse further attested to. Eliza mused a moment, holding the card half open and casting an empty gaze across the room. Having made up her mind on a plan, she tucked the card back into its cream envelope and safely, along with her casebook, into her leather purse. Resolute, she reversed the actions of her morning, fetching her hat from the hook, locking the office door, and hurrying out into the street. She had no cause to hail a cab; her aim was best met on foot.   </p><p><br/>
</p><p>The busy street corner where Eliza turned was one of many that demonstrated the contrast of the city. Within yards, the sound of carriages and snippets of conversation drifting from  passerby’s were replaced with the sound of lowly groans and haunting cries. The air was thick and the smell of alcohol, smoke, and overall malaise permeated into the very cobblestones Eliza walked on. No one respectable could be found in these streets and if they were, a frightful, searing sight would turn the blood in their veins cold. </p><p>To Eliza, the lowly scene was one she had experienced before. With a firm hold on her bag, she stepped into an even darker alleyway. The filth and stench of sewage grew worse, as what could hardy pass for living quarters towered like phantoms around her. She ducked under the low hanging ropes of laundry; shirtsleeves and aprons skirted the ground, the clothes looking no cleaner than before their washing. Fires burned in metal bins and scantily clad, grim-faced strangers appeared to use the very remnants of their energy to lift their heads and watch Eliza pass by. </p><p>Eliza was undeterred. She climbed over a pile of indiscernible filth and braced herself against the corner of a structure with her gloved hand, so as not to slip. Though made of stone, the structure was so decrepit that Eliza feared it would turn to dust at the slightest of her touch.  </p><p>Eliza stopped when she recognized a small figure sitting on an empty barrel, trying to contain their shivering by the dying fire pit in front of them. The hat, pawned, no doubt from a gentleman, fell forward on their head, casting a shadow over their face. There was a tear in the left shoulder of the jacket wrapped around their thin frame.  </p><p>Eliza stopped a few meters before the huddled figure. “Hello, Sam.” </p><p>The young boy jumped up in surprise and took a few quick steps back before recognizing the sharp-minded, lady detective addressing him. </p><p>Sam swiped his jacket sleeve over his nose. “I’ve got no cases for you, Miss. Unless you wait for Mr. Dales; he’ll be at his deathbed any day…” Sam trailed off. </p><p>A small smile broke across Eliza face, as she took a step closer to the timid boy. Sam’s tattered clothes were no match for the February chill. His brown hair was pushed under his cap, his green eyes were dulled by hardship, and the dirt on his face could be mistaken for freckles. He was a poor, sorry sight.</p><p>“You delivered a card to a lady this morning,” Eliza said assertively. “An Alma Reed?” </p><p>Sam’s expression remained unchanged. Eliza had forgotten about the money. She fished into her purse, retrieved a few coins, and met the boy’s outstretched hand. </p><p>Sam nodded a ‘yes’ to her prior question.  </p><p>Eliza wasted no time. “Who gave it to you?”      </p><p>“I don’t know, Miss,” the street boy replied. “It was just the coachman. Coach was standing by the road and he called me o’er when he saw me passing. Gave me the card, a note, and five shillings. Told me to deliver it to the lady of the house. I didn’t know what the note said, so I asked a missus in the street to read it to me- it was the lady’s address in Russel Square. I gave the lady her card, no more.” </p><p>“Was there anyone in the coach?” Eliza questioned.     </p><p>“I swear, I don’t know, Miss,” Sam repeated. “I saw no one and he drove off right after.”   </p><p>Eliza’s shoulders sank and she sighed. Sam idled by the fading fire a moment.  </p><p>“But I can show you the place where he gave it to me,” he suddenly uttered, his hand stretching out to Eliza again. </p><p>No sooner had the cold shilling met Sam’s hand that he turned and took off down the alleyway. Eliza followed him with haste, holding up her heavy burgundy skirt to keep it from trailing in the dirty water trickling between the cobblestones. </p><p>The walk, or rather the pursuit finally led Eliza to a pleasant, airy street with little traffic. Sam stopped short on the pavement, but said nothing. Eliza concluded they had arrived. </p><p>“Well.” Eliza tried to steady her breathing. She touched her hat both to set it back into place and to make sure she was still wearing it. “Thank you, Sam,” she said to the street boy before he ran off.    </p><p>Eliza’s eyes wandered down the length of the street. Coaches leisurely passed by, a maid returned, basket in hand, from the market, and two ladies crossed the street, engaged in friendly chatter. Everything was…ordinary, but then Eliza could hardly expect the man in question, Albert himself to strut down the street in all his handsomeness and charm to declare his existence. For all she believed, he was still very likely dead. Eliza turned in place to face the white façade of a townhouse opposite to where the coach had been parked. Coming up the steps, she knocked on the front door. There were no footsteps and no answer. The curtains were drawn. Curious still, Eliza unlocked a small, iron gate fit into the narrow space between the neighboring home and found herself in a tiny, square courtyard. Bare and drained of color, thorns on brittle rose vines only eluded to the vibrancy of the garden in its summer bloom. Under the vines stood a little, wood bench. Brazenly, Eliza pushed the bench the short distance to one of the townhouse’s rear windows and hoisted herself up. Shielding her face from the sun with her hand to better see inside, Eliza peered through the sliver of space between the dainty, lace curtains. Ghostly white figures filled the room-furniture draped in sheets to keep the dust from settling on their surface. Further evidence that no one was home and no one intended to be home for some time.   </p><p>The shift of Eliza’s weight tipped the bench in the muddy ground and she nearly lost her balance. She did her best to descend like a lady, but it was hardly her strong suit. Her shoe sank into the mud with an obscene squelch. Splatters flew up the hem of her skirt. Eliza brushed at the mud with her gloved hands as best she could. </p><p>“Hey!” a loud voice shouted at her. Eliza’s eyes scanned around for the source of the exclamation, landing on the figure of a man, hanging out of a neighboring window. He was quite top heavy-a little further forward and he’d find himself in the evergreens growing around the perimeter of his house. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss?!” The gentleman persisted. “I’m calling for the police!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So much mystery and new territory for Eliza to tackle, but then, Eliza's cases can certainly never be described as ordinary. Is she bringing lost lovers together...and finally, yes, the fun is really about to begin in Chapter 3.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Detective Inspector Wellington was not having a good day. Since the death of his superior, Superintendent Stirling and worse, the betrayal of his partner, Detective Frank Jenkins, Scotland Yard was in nothing short of an upheaval. Cases seemed to grow in piles faster than ever before and the younger members of the department were shaken useless by the unfoldings. William would admit he was not sorry to see either of the corrupt, filthy men come to their ends. Though he had no doubt that Stirling would still be drinking brandy and smoking cigars among the circle of elite and esteemed wherever his rotten soul landed. But, it was Frank’s brutality that was truly unforgivable. William still resisted the urge to walk into London's notorious, Newgate Prison and beat the executioners to getting hold of his neck.<br/>
For Eliza Scarlet’s sake.<br/>
And yet, it was for Eliza’s sake that he did not. </p><p>Illuminated by the short-lived February sun, the Inspector’s office was equal to the current state of his mind-chaos. Files of open and closed cases littered his desk, photographs of grisly murder scenes and bodies lay out on display like pictures taken on holiday, and a splatter of ink had embedded itself like a blood stain into the interrogation documents of Oxford Street’s presently finest thief. </p><p>Stood by the fireplace, William adjusted his black necktie, crooking a finger under the knot to loosen it. His collar felt unusually tight this morning. Running a hand through his hair, he decided he passed as presentable, but the burden of work he was avoiding haunted him even in the reflection of his mirror. With a resigning huff, William turned to take on his desk. Haphazardly, he stacked files into manageable piles and reunited the photographs to their corresponding investigations as best he could. His fingers branched out to pick up one, two, three unwashed whiskey glasses. Relocating them to another table, he returned absently to his desk. </p><p>William groaned and flipped open a new file marked '<span class="u">Urgent</span>' and scanned his eyes over the contents.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>‘12/2/83-Body of middle-aged male found on St. Katherine Docks at 7:20 am this morning. Suspicious death reported by merchant ship owner. Immediate attention required.’</i>
  </p>
</div>Five photos accompanied the report-three of the dead man, who of roughly 60 years was dressed in his undershirt and work pants, with the absence of his suspenders and shoes. Thick, knitted socks covered his feet. A close-up revealed a large gash that ran parallel with his receding hairline across his broad forehead. The other two photos, one of which blurry, depicted the riverbank scene on the Thames where the body was found.<p>Cause of death-a glaringly obvious impact to the head with a blunt object. William liked to think he’d solved the case without even leaving his office. If he was lucky, it was a crewman who’s empty whiskey bottle had sealed the unidentified man's fate over a late-night, drunken brawl below decks and William could close this case by noon. </p><p>Catching his black wool coat and bowler hat on the way out, William left for the St. Katherine Docks.</p>
<hr/><p>Eliza had almost reached the street corner after her muddy escapade at the empty townhouse moments ago, when slowing horse hooves on the cobblestones alerted of a coach coming up behind her and an unmistakable voice called out her name. </p><p>“Eliza!” the familiar, rough voice uttered with a tone that always expected an immediate response, but Eliza did just the opposite. The headstrong detective took several more steps before giving her pursuer the satisfaction of acknowledging them. </p><p>The scene Eliza already imagined before turning towards the road came to play before her. Seated In his usual forward form, Inspector Wellington leaned against the window of a police coach. Their eyes-confident against collected stares met for a moment as the horses clicked past. </p><p>The black coach halted a few meters ahead of Eliza and she slowed her steps. “Good day, William.” She met him with a welcome smile, swaying her hips in the burgundy dress almost unnoticeably.<br/>
Almost. </p><p>“Eliza,” William repeated her name. “What are you doing in this part of town?” He strode towards her, his hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat and an inquisitive expression on his face. </p><p>Eliza fished for a plausible lie. “Oh, I just thought I’d take some air after a stifling morning in the office.” Only after the pretense left her lips did she consider that her office lay a good several miles away. “I might ask the same of you, William?” Eliza tried to steer the conversation back to the inspector. </p><p>“I was just on my way from a suspicious drowning at the docks this morning, when I was intercepted by one of our uniforms in the street, sent to investigate a complaint made by a resident here.” William gestured up the street with his head. “He said there was a woman snooping about his neighbor’s property. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her?” </p><p>“Unfortunately, I cannot say that I have, William.” Eliza ignored every implication William cast at her. </p><p>The inspector flicked his brows slightly and shifted in place. “Ah, well,” he said under his breath. </p><p>Eliza was taken aback when William suddenly stepped closer towards her, narrowing the gap of formal space between them. Withdrawing his right hand from his coat pocket, he reached towards Eliza’s face. Eliza had no time to react when William carefully swiped her cheek with his thumb. </p><p>“You have a bit of, mud, on your cheek.” He looked at her brazenly, then shifted his gaze down her frame. “And on your skirt.”</p><p>William took the silence on Eliza’s part as an admission of guilt and try as he might, he couldn’t hide the sly smirk creeping onto his face. If only, Eliza thought, she could wipe it off just as easily with a swipe of her finger. </p><p>…</p><p>The police coach came to a halt in front of <i>Bromfield Stationary</i> on High Street. Idling coaches and cabs lined the popular business district in the heart of London, waiting for people to emerge from the menagerie of shops, their hands heavy with goods. </p><p>“Thank you, William, for offering me a lift,” Eliza said to the inspector, who sat opposite her in the coach. She gave him a polite smile before she stepped out onto the pavement of the busy street. </p><p>“Of course,” William replied. “How lucky that I happened to be passing by on your walk.” </p><p>“Good day, William.” Eliza tried not to roll her eyes. She gave the coach door enough of a push for it to shut on its own, but William caught the door just before it slammed and climbed out after her. He was met with a puzzled look. </p><p>“Are you following me?” Eliza questioned, eying him suspiciously. “I thought you had a case that required your urgent attention.” </p><p>William knew two things about Eliza-one was that she hardly ever engaged in formal letter writing to require a pressing stop for expensive stationary, and two, that she never cast him aside as hastily as when she had something up her sleeve. Granted, he may have missed the mark on the cause of death on his man from the docks this morning, but in the judgment of Eliza’s peculiar, little tendencies, he was rarely mistaken. </p><p>“Mm, I do,” William hummed. “I thought I’d clear my head for a moment. Come back and look at the case with fresh eyes.” It was William’s turn to lie now. Eliza was the last person on Earth that he could clear his head with-and she knew it. </p><p>As it happened, the stationary shop was especially busy today, but it was not the ornate papers and fountain pens that sent people flocking to the counters.<br/>
It was the Valentines.     </p><p>At a glass display counter, the shop owner, Mr. Murray had been taken hostage by a trio of lovestruck young men, who rowdily decided on the sentiments they wished their cards to relay to their female recipients. Eliza recalled that the last time she’d seen Mr. Murray, he’d had a lot more hair on his head. However, judging by the sweat glistening on his temple and curt remarks to the gentlemen, it was probable that he was losing the rest of it now by the minute. </p><p>Forced to wait her turn, Eliza sauntered over to a window display of Valentine cards. She’d nearly forgotten that William was just a few steps behind. Eliza reached over a sign that read <span class="small">‘Do Not Touch’</span> and swept up one of the cards into her hand. </p><p>“I had no idea you had a secret admirer, Eliza,” William said, while she read the rather saucy card. A caricature of a well-endowed chorus girl with her skirt thrown high was not in her line of interest. Better William’s, perhaps. </p><p>“And what if I had, William? Would you disapprove?” Eliza said, toying with him. She watched a flicker of doubt cross the inspector’s face at the notion of there being something Eliza was not telling him. Eliza smiled. “As it happens, William, I am on a case.” </p><p>“So I guessed,” William eluded once again to the mark of dirt on Eliza’s skirt. “What are you doing here then?” He pointed at the cards with his hat, which one by one, Eliza continued to pick up.</p><p>Eliza could not resist the casual mention of her puzzling investigation to William. He was the only person she trusted enough to tell. </p><p>“I received a distressed client in my office this morning,” Eliza said. “She was delivered a Valentine from her lover, who died five years ago. She’s convinced he’s alive and has asked me to find him.”</p><p>William stifled a laugh. “ You’d do better than to waste your time with such nonsense, Eliza. People play pranks all the time. I assure you, it’s nothing more than that.” </p><p>“Well,” Eliza felt all the more need to conceal her wounded pride and stand her ground on the argument of her investigation, even though she had nothing to go on. “I have reason to believe Mrs. Reed is telling the truth.” Eliza surprised herself with the conviction of her own statement.  </p><p>“Ah, <i>Mrs.</i> Reed,” William caught on. “Eliza, I never saw you as one to be in favor of adultery.”</p><p>“They loved each other,” Eliza said simply. “The least she deserves to know is if he’s alive.” </p><p>Eliza jumped at the opportunity to save Mr. Murray from his overbearing customers the moment his eyes searched the room for a desperate escape. She waved at him animatedly and watched him walk towards them with a slight limp. </p><p>“How may I be of service, Miss?” Mr. Murray said with relief, as he met the pair of detectives at the glass counter. </p><p>“I received this card from an anonymous admirer,” Eliza said, taking on a coquettish tone, one that customary to society’s view of her fragile sex, portrayed her as a typical, frivolous young lady. William tried not to laugh. Eliza delicately presented Mr. Murray with her client’s beautiful love note. “Now, I suspect I know who the sender may be, but I want to be sure now, before I make any capricious gestures that I may come to regret, should I be mistaken. You understand, of course.” She smiled innocently. “I was wondering if you might perhaps recall selling this card to a gentleman?”  </p><p>Mr. Murray lowered his magnifying glasses from where they resided atop his balding head. He studied the card expertly, making little grunts, as his eyes went over each section. Whether they were subconscious or an intentional assurance to Eliza that he was doing his utmost to fulfill her request, she did not know. </p><p>“Very expensive,” he said, at last. “The detail of the lace is exquisite and the picture is very romantic. We sell several such cards, for those wishing to further express their affection. Whoever its sender, Miss, I would not doubt their intentions.” Mr. Murray looked at Eliza through his glasses, his eyes enlarged even more to take in the fortunate recipient, as if he expected to see Eliza again shortly for the ordering of wedding invitations. “But, the verse is unfamiliar to me. Not a common sentiment.” He lifted his glasses. “As much as I would like to enlighten you on the identity of your suitor, I can say for certain that this card was not purchased at my shop.” </p><p>“Well, I am much obliged, Mr. Murray,” Eliza said, attempting to conceal her disappointment until the poor owner was again overtaken by eager shoppers. Only then did she turn to William, who had watched the exchange with enjoyment. </p><p>Eliza sighed, dropping her hands heavily at her sides. “So, I know no more on this man than I did this morning.” </p><p>“Eliza, the man is dead,” William said, gently touching on her shoulder to reassure her of his point. “You have nothing but the words of a lonely married woman to go by. I’d wager it’s her husband who sent the card. Proof to her that he knew about the affaire.” </p><p>For a moment, William thought he’d convinced Eliza that the case was closed, but her words relayed otherwise. </p><p>“It’s just that Mrs. Reed seemed so certain,” Eliza said reluctantly. “The card had not been in her possession more than a few hours and yet, she had no doubt in her mind that it was from her lover, Albert himself.” </p><p>“She’s upset and desperate, Eliza,” William replied, as he opened the shop door for her and they stepped out into the busy street. “Of course, she’d hold on to the notion that he was alive rather than face the truth-that it’s all a lie.” It was now or never to persuade Eliza and William could be relied upon to go about it the wrong way. “Believe me when I say, I’ve seen enough heartbroken women go to great lengths to preserve the fantasy they imagined.” William witnessed the moment that Eliza stopped listening to him and started opposing him. </p><p>“Oh, William, so you think us women are only capable of helplessly waiting for a man to fulfill the trivial ideals of our faint imaginations and resent them when they don’t?!” Eliza challenged him. The pair had come to a stop by the police coach. People pushed past them on the sidewalk, but Eliza and William only had their eyes fixed on each other. “That explains why you must find such relief in the company you keep.” </p><p>William tried to smooth out the callous effect of his words, but the damage was done. “I didn’t mean you, Eliza,” he said, softening his tone of voice. </p><p>“Why not, William?” Eliza retorted. “Since you always form your opinions so solidly.”  </p><p>William merely huffed and put on his hat. “I have work to do.” He opened the coach door and gave Eliza one more frustrated look. “As you always remind me, I should really learn how to make better use of my time.”  </p><p><br/>
</p><p>Eliza’s entire morning proved a wasted journey. Her search for Albert had turned up nothing, but then again, she was likely chasing a ghost. In her head, she allowed herself to admit that William was right, on that part, at least. She had nothing but Alma’s word and intuition, who refused to accept another outcome. Eliza could make inquiries, but with what cause? She couldn’t voice her suspicions without revealing her motive. She was foolish to take on this case. Eliza resolved to write Alma and sever their agreement promptly. </p><p>As Eliza approached her agency for the second time that day, her well-intending, curious neighbor, Herr Hildegard poked out of his establishment again. </p><p>“Fräulein Scarlet!” the undertaker called, animatedly. </p><p>Eliza’s head was a jumble of thoughts, but she acknowledged him nonetheless. “Herr Hildegard!” </p><p>“The lady has returned to see you,” the gentleman said, excitedly. “She is waiting for you upstairs outside your office.” </p><p>“Ah, yes.” Eliza smiled at him widely. “Thank you, Herr Hildegard. I have already met with her.” She referred to Alma Reed, who she hoped had indeed come to her senses and returned herself to pay Eliza her fee and put an end to the matter.   </p><p>“No, this is the lady I was telling you about,” Herr Hildegard replied. “The one who was waiting outside your office early this morning before you arrived.” </p><p>Eliza tipped her head with curiosity. </p><p>“I do hope you can help her, Fräulein Scarlet,” Herr Hildegard said. “She is in a most fragile state.”</p><p>---</p><p>Sure enough, Eliza found a stranger waiting in the shadow just outside her office door. </p><p>“May I help you?” Eliza asked when she reached the landing. </p><p>Turning at the sound of Eliza’s voice, a young lady in a white, fur-trimmed coat breathed a quiet sigh of relief upon seeing the detective. A tassel purse dangled from her arm, as her hands were buried in a complimenting, fur hand muff. A pink hat covered most of her pale blonde hair and a pink shawl draped over her coat, looped over her arms for extra warmth. </p><p>“Miss Rosa Ward,” the young lady introduced herself with a smile that brightened her soft features.   </p><p>At first glance, Rosa’s extravagant clothes alluded to a life of privilege, but upon closer approach, Eliza gathered that it was likely the nicest ensemble she owned. </p><p>Eliza unlocked the door to her office, not wanting to keep her client waiting any longer. </p><p>“Please, come in,” Eliza encouraged Rosa to take a seat, as she hung up her own hat. Eager to put out the chill in the air, Eliza knelt at the fireplace. She may have escaped acquiring many domestic skills, but she could build and light an impressive fire. Eliza struck a match and lit the cinders at its base. She watched the first embers glow a cool blue before lapping at the coals in gold. </p><p>Rosa did not wait for Eliza to grant her full attention at the desk to begin the conversation. “I saw mention of your agency in the paper,” the young woman said behind Eliza’s back. “It’s silly of me to come at all, really. One can hardly bother the police with such a matter, but, I thought perhaps, as a woman, you might see things differently.” </p><p>Eliza turned her eyes away from the quickly growing fire and stood up, approaching the seated Rosa. </p><p>“See what?” the detective asked, intrigued. </p><p>Wordlessly, Rosa removed one of her hands from the fur muff and passed Eliza a cream envelope she was holding. Eliza opened the envelope where she stood and drew out a Valentine’s card. </p><p>Cut into the shape of a heart, the Valentine in Eliza’s hands shone in paper lace of silver and gold. Doves ducked in and out between layers of cream colored roses and lilies. At its center, under a pillar arch, stood a young lady, her cheeks dusted pink and her smile sweet and sincere. The wide, layered skirts of her fancy, lavender and white dress were so precisely cut out of paper and the small bonnet on her head concealed only part of her blonde locks. </p><p>Eliza recognized the gracious figure; it was the young lady seated before her, Miss Rosa Ward. Slowly, she opened the card.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>
All I wish in her obtaining,<br/>
Fortune can no more impart;<br/>
Let my eyes, my thoughts explaining,<br/>
Speak the feelings of my heart,<br/>
Joy and pleasure never ceasing,<br/>
Love with length of years increasing.<br/>
Thus my heart and hand surrender,<br/>
Here my faith and truth I plight;<br/>
Constant still and kind, and tender,<br/>
May our flames burn ever bright.</i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i></i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i></i>
  </p>
  <p><i>Forever,<br/>
E.</i><br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Eliza froze. It hit her all at once. The symbolization of the card. The telling sentiments expressed within. The uncustomary mark of a signature. Her mind was racing and yet, she could think of nothing at all.<p>Rosa sensed Eliza’s lack of presence in the room. “Is something the matter, Miss?” she asked, worry lacing her voice. </p><p>Eliza cleared her throat and looked up from the card, where she met a still-seated Rosa’s widened, blue eyes. </p><p>“No, not at all, Miss Ward,” Eliza replied with a vibrant smile to conceal any wavering in her voice. She rounded her desk and settled into her chair. “Now please, tell my why it is that you seek my help?” Eliza questioned, feigning ignorance. </p><p>“This card came in the first post this morning,” Rosa said in calm contrast to Eliza’s earlier client. “I would think nothing of it, if not for the picture and signature inside,” Rosa paused briefly. “The ‘E.’ you see-it is the initial of my late fiancée, Earnest Ward.” </p><p>Eliza tried to replicate a similar perplexed reaction to that of this morning, but her present interest leaned more towards heightened curiosity than surprise. Still, she composed herself and began to note the details of Rosa’s case. </p><p>“Is there anyone at all you can think of that might have sent this card?” Eliza gestured in a small circular motion with her pencil to further encourage her client’s reply. “Perhaps someone keen to play a trick or simply to remind you of your late fiancée?” </p><p>Rosa shook her head a clear no. “I cannot think of anyone who would have reason to,” she said. “Earnest died seven years ago. If someone wished to haunt me with his memory, why wait so long?” Rosa echoed the question Alma Reed had too struggled to interpret. </p><p>Eliza did not have a reply. She flicked her pencil. “Then tell me about your fiancée, Miss Ward?” </p><p>“Earnest and I were sweethearts from the day we met; I was 16 and he was 19,” Rosa shared. “He was blonde, and young, and handsome. I was visiting my cousin in Bath for a month that spring. There was a small alcove in a park near her home with a bench that I often stopped to read at. It was there, one afternoon, that I met Earnest.” Rosa’s face reflected her memory. “It’s just as you see it on the card, Miss Scarlet-the pillar arch. No one but Earnest would know it.”</p><p>Eliza glanced down at the heart-shaped card on her desk and the figure under the arch. Her mind still searched for a reasonable explanation, but came up empty. She hated the feeling. </p><p>“Earnest and I couldn’t bear to be parted, so I stayed on in Bath to live with my cousin,” Rosa continued. “My parents were insistent on my finishing school before thinking of marriage. I was 18 when Earnest finally proposed soon after I told him I was with child.” Rosa paused for a moment. “He died suddenly six months later. Earnest often travelled to London for his engineering apprenticeship, where he was taken ill with typhoid fever. By the time word reached me he was very ill and I myself was not well enough to go see him.” Rosa subtly touched on her stomach, reminded of her pregnancy. “I was not even with him when he died. It was his sister, Nancy, who wrote to me of his death.” </p><p>“And what of Earnest’s family? Where are they?” Eliza tried to paint a better picture of Rosa’s late loved one. Given Alma Reed’s precarious situation with her lover, Albert, she had been able to give the detective very little in the way of details. It only further impeded the present obstacles of her investigation. Eliza was desperate for clues. </p><p>Fortunately, Rosa enlightened Eliza. “Earnest and his elder sister, Nancy had a difficult childhood; both their parents died when Earnest was just nine and his sister, at just 17, eloped with an officer to London shortly after. Tragically, Nancy’s attachment ended only several months after it began and left her in ruin. Earnest wrote to her, but he never saw his sister again. He spent the remainder of his childhood at boarding school.” </p><p>“Do you have any idea where Nancy is now?” Eliza asked condescendingly.   </p><p>“Yes,” Rosa replied without hesitation. “She runs a seamstress shop for fallen women on Bury Street on the West End of London. She goes by the name of Madame Mauvine. That’s the return address you see on the envelope.” She gestured at the envelope Eliza had overlooked. Contrary to Alma Reed’s, it contained both a delivery and return address. </p><p>Eliza began to observe the similarities or rather the glaring differences between the two cases. She picked up the envelope and ran her eyes over the writing. </p><p>“I see you took your fiancée’s name,” Eliza noted upon closer attention, which addressed her client as Mrs. Rosa Ward. </p><p>“I did,” the young lady replied and Eliza caught sight of the dainty engagement ring on her finger. A miniature stone cast off light at its center. “As an unwed mother, my entire family’s reputation would have been ruined, but everyone is so kind to a widow. Besides, Earnest always told me Rosa Ward suited me better than my maiden name, Rosa Sewell. He said a name can change everything and he was right. We were going to be so happy. My son, Benjamin is six now and would have been Earnest’s pride and joy.” Rosa smiled softly. “Do you think you can find them, Miss Scarlet? Whoever this person is?” she asked the detective frankly. </p><p>Eliza met her blue eyes and gave a reassuring smile. “I will do what I can, but I cannot promise I will find the answer you are hoping for, if any, Miss Ward.”  </p><p>Rosa dipped her head politely. “Of course, I understand, but I am willing to pay your asking fee for trying.” She paused before adding, “Thank you, Miss Scarlet.” </p><p>The young blonde buried her hands back into her fur muff as she stood and Eliza watched Rosa’s departing figure from her desk until the door slammed shut. </p><p>With a deep sigh, Eliza lay the two unique, decorative Valentines side by side on her desk and allowed her mind to wander again. Interlacing her fingers, Eliza’s gaze shifted to the crackling fire across the room. </p><p>This was no coincidence, Eliza was sure of that now. She had to learn more about the two dead men. But more importantly, she had to find him.<br/>
The sender of the cards.<br/>
Mr. Valentine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I. am. obsessed. </p><p>with William and Eliza. </p><p>No, really.</p><p>So, Victorians actually loved Valentine's Day so much that it quickly became one of the biggest holidays of the year in that era! Valentine's Day and the sending of Valentine cards became such a huge tradition that postmen worked around the clock for days before the holiday to get them all delivered on time.<br/>The best part-cards weren't just reserved for sweethearts. You could send a vengeful card to your enemy, express jealousy, put off an admirer-you name it. While many cards were expensive and very romantic, others could be humorous, crude, and downright vulgar. No matter the sentiment, almost all were sent anonymously...I bet that stirred many hearts. </p><p>Anyways...<br/>The hunt is officially on for Mr. Valentine.</p><p>Do share how it's going for you and every bit of encouragement is much appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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